


taste and touch and see and feel

by spock



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Banter, Bathroom Sex, Hair-pulling, M/M, Marking, Repressed Flirting, Resolved Sexual Tension, Roughness, Season/Series 02, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27152231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: "You asshole," Javi pants. "What if I'd had someone with me?"Steve huffs out a breath, something akin to a laugh, and dips his head down low enough to press his face into Javi's shoulder. Every hair on Javi’s body stands on-end at the feeling of Steve's lips mouthing at his ear, sliding down to his neck. He experiences the sensation of Steve’s smile as a physical thing, Steve’s teeth pressing into his jugular. "Suprised you don't."
Relationships: Steve Murphy/Javier Peña
Comments: 27
Kudos: 152
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	taste and touch and see and feel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PajamaSecrets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PajamaSecrets/gifts).



Javi's door used to be a hulking wooden thing. About a month into his stint in Colombia, a pair of kids, tweaking out of their goddamn minds, thought they'd try to make good on the generic bounty that lingers over every DEA agent's head. 

Lucky him. 

Neither Javi nor his landlord had been willing to come out of pocket to replace it. Now, six replacements later, it's little more than a plywood farce with fogged glass, rattling in its frame as knuckles strike against the outside of it, a hollow sound echoing into the quiet of Javi’s home. Javi's been toeing at the edge of consciousness since he dropped into bed two hours ago, thoughts racing, thinking about everything and nothing. He heaves himself up from his mattress, tugging his piece out from under his pillow as he goes, and makes for the living room. 

(If this ends up being some kind of lucid dream? Javi’s gonna be pissed.)

He throws the deadbolt and opens the door just a crack, looking to see who it might be beyond the vague shape of a man that he can make out through the glass, a head or so taller than Javi. Those first few doors, he'd bothered with the hassle of installing a peephole. He hadn’t with this latest one. 

Here's hoping his laziness doesn't get him killed. 

He's thrown back as whoever's on the other side shoulders it open, Javi's spine connecting harshly with the wall opposite his too-small entryway. He's got a shock of blond hair, a muddy looking mustache. Steve. 

"Oh fuck you, man," Javi says, right before Steve's kicked the door closed behind him, his chest pressing tight to Javi's, pinning him up against the wall.

Steve tastes like bottom-shelf liquor, the kind that's only worth drinking when payday won't be coming any time soon. Shitty as their salaries may be, neither of them is so broke that they'd have to resort to that kind of desperation. 

That said, Javi's never been as fond of self-abasement as Steve tends to be. This is fairly on-brand for him, all things considered. 

Hands grip tight at Javi’s shoulders, his neck, Steve pawing at him. Javi only puts up with so much before he twists his head to the side, growling out, "Stop fucking grabbing at me, you goddamn sasquatch." 

Steve grunts, dismissive, but his fingers stop digging so forcefully into Javi's skin. He noses Javi's cheek, biting at the corner of Javi's lips until Javi turns back towards him so that they're kissing again, no other sound beyond that of their mouthes. 

They break apart a minute later, breathing hard. Javi's only got his underwear on. He feels strangely vulnerable, standing there while Steve's in the same beat-down suit he'd worn into work that morning. One of his hands comes up between their faces, pressing his thumbnail to Javi’s bottom lip, slick and swollen feeling, rubbed raw from Steve's mustache, his stubble. "You asshole," Javi pants. "What if I'd had someone with me?"

Steve huffs out a breath, something akin to a laugh, and dips his head down low enough to press his face into Javi's shoulder. Every hair on Javi’s body stands on-end at the feeling of Steve's lips mouthing at his ear, sliding down to his neck. He experiences the sensation of Steve’s smile as a physical thing, Steve’s teeth pressing into his jugular. "Suprised you don't."

He stands up tall again, eyes glassy. Javi stares up at him, breathing shallow. He watches as Steve blinks a few times, every inch of him looking heavy before he visibly gets some semblance of a hold on himself, mustache twitching as his nose scrunches up. His knuckles brush against Javi's stomach for a second as he reaches between them to fuck around with his belt, pulling his pants up. 

"Well," Steve says, "G'night."

Javi stares at Steve's back as he turns the doorknob and steps out into the hallway of Javi’s complex, closing the door behind himself with a hollow tick. 

*

He makes a point of going into work early. 

The idea is to be sitting at his desk, looking put together whenever it is that Steve eventually manages to drag himself into the office, hungover and pathetic.

Javi wants him to think two things, in a very specific order. First: that amongst all the stupid shit Steve's pulled in his pathetic, hillbilly life, walking away from Javi like that is going to end up being one of his biggest regrets. The type of ‘what-the-fuck-did-I-do’ type shit that'll have Steve’s stomach turning once he's in his death bed right before the lights go out. And, less important, but still key to the fucking issue: that Javi's life doesn't revolve around him, and Steve should count himself lucky that he gets to sit across from Javi's goddamn face every day. 

The universe has other plans. 

Steve's sitting at his desk when Javi walks into the room, long legs hooked over one of the corners, feet dangling over what is meant to be Javi’s real estate. He's paging through a beat-up copy of Giovanni's Room as if he doesn't have a care in the fucking world. 

He feels some of the wind come out from his sails, shoulders slumping down. Steve's wearing a fucking polo, wrinkled like it hasn't seen a hanger since before Connie took off, yet still for all the world looking like he managed a full night's sleep and wasn't licking his way into Javi's mouth just three hours ago. 

Javi sags down into his chair, yanking the phone's receiver out of its cradle and shoving it up against his ear, fucking around with the papers stacked over the span of his desk just to make it seem like he actually had a purpose in coming in this early, something to keep him busy. "Since when are you literate?" he asks, not allowing himself to look at Steve as he does. 

(Or that's how he plays it, anyway, glaring daggers at the motherfucker from the corner of his eye. It's how he knows that Steve doesn't so much as glance at him, turning the page of his book.)

"Oh you know," Steve drawls, not really answering at all, certainly not elaborating on just what the fuck it is he’s playing at. It’s fucking typical of him to follow up on having shared his _preferences_ with Javi in the middle of the goddamn night with something as mundane as a book to rub the point in, whatever it may be. Real fucking typical. "Not like I can understand any of the crazy-ass tv shows they've got down here." 

He looks at Javi all of a sudden, catching him out in his staring. "You planning on calling anybody, or?"

Javi slams the phone back down, shoving his chair from his desk. "Fuck this," he grunts. "I'm gonna see what the hotlines turned up last night." 

He tells himself that it wasn't meant as an invitation, but that doesn't stop him from feeling pleased when Steve manages to catch up to him as he makes his way down the hallway.

*

Javi spends that night laying on his couch, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for a knock that doesn't come. 

Both he and Steve are on edge the next day, sniping at one another. Every single lead that seems to come their way is a day late and dollar short. When they aren't kicking through the now-abandoned safehouses of Escobar's men, they're chasing up after lookalikes, everyone and their mother falling over themselves to report any fat fuck wearing a bargain-rack sweater and sporting a mustache.

By the time his shift is up, Javi feels like he's going out of his mind. He ends up going to a bar he hasn't actually visited in his own free time, only having the nerve to venture in when one of his informants needed dragging out for some reason or another. 

He isn't under any such reservations tonight, moving through the crowd and almost itching to spot a familiar face, to get into a fight. 

To be forced to explain himself.

Of course it's Steve that he runs into, smiling around the rim of his glass at a man that looks far too much like Javi himself. It's pathetic. 

(Javi doesn't want to think about his own goals in coming here; trying his luck at finding another American, already resigning himself to settle for some bottle-blond Colombian kid if the rest of him came close enough to what Javi had in mind.)

Steve catches sight of him, because of course he does, sitting up straight from where he’d been leaning against the bar. Steve says something that makes the guy he'd been talking to walk away, not looking away from Javi the entire time. 

He isn't in the mood for Steve's games. Javi walks to the opposite end of the bar and orders himself a drink. Right as he's pulling out his wallet to pay, Steve blinks into existence at his side, a couple of bills held out to the bartender from between his fingers. 

Javi ignores him.

"You speak English?" Steve asks. "¿Habla usted Inglés?"

Javi looks at him like he's fucking insane, and it's more than Steve deserves. "No."

Steve grins, leaning down onto his elbows along the bar. The bartender sets down Javi's drink and wanders off. Javi watches him start to pour something for a couple a few seats down just so that he doesn't have to acknowledge the way Steve's eying him. 

"Aw, come on." Steve traces a finger around the edge of Javi's hand where it's clutching tight at the glass tumbler. "Don't be like that. What's your name? Tu nombre?" 

Javi knocks back the drink, enjoying the lightheaded feeling that slams into him all at once. "None of your fucking business."

"Now, see?" Steve shifts, his other hand settling on Javi's hip. The way he's standing means that Javi's now bracketed with Steve's chest to his back, Steve practically looming over him. "I can work with that."

They end up shoved in a stall together in the men’s, humping into one another, Javi biting hard at Steve's neck, wanting to leave marks that all the guys at the office ask about in the harsh light of the morning. Steve's got his hands shoved inside of Javi's jeans, button yanked open so hard that Javi's a little surprised Steve hadn't torn the damn thing off. 

Steve has him coming before Javi so much as thinks about returning the favor, down on his knees with that infuriating mouth of his stretched out around Javi's cock, choking from the length of it. The bastard has the same laser-focus that Javi's only ever seen when things go gone tits-up at work and neither of them are sure they'll actually make it out alive. 

Javi's down on the floor with him before his orgasm’s really finished, mind thick with his own singular, driving purpose, licking into Steve's mouth, tugging at Steve’s hair until Steve's neck is pulled back as far as it'll go, panting into Javi's mouth. 

"You got a place?" 

(It'd been Steve’s voice, that first time they met, that had Javi looking at him twice. Steve had looked dorky as shit otherwise, awkward in his badly-fitting tan suit with his hair pushed back like it was the first day of school. Javi had written him off, same as all white boys before him.

And then he’d heard Steve’s voice. 

Javi hadn’t heard that particular sort of twang in a good long while, and it'd been even longer since he had let himself think about what that sort of thing tended to do to him. 

It'd been a quick thought, not something that he'd ever been able to control, idle wonderings of what Steve might sound like after he'd had a cock down his throat. What sort of sweet, husky sounds might get dragged out of him should Steve find himself in the position of getting fucked silly. Just stupid shit that Javi always did his best not to dwell on too much. In and out of his mind, a fantasy formed and tucked away in the span of time it'd taken for them to shake hands, and then he'd been showing Steve around the DEA, introducing him like Steve was his.)

(Because he was.)

"Yeah," Javi says. "I got a place."

*

Javi knows for sure that he's going to beat Steve to the office this time. Mainly because he'd left Steve dead-to-the-world in Javi's bed, well-fucked and snoring like a goddamn chainsaw. Javi, on the other hand, hadn’t really managed any sleep of his own, Steve's long fucking limbs heavy over his, practically trapping him against the mattress the minute Javi had rolled off Steve’s back.

(It's a good thing that none of the other worthless sons of bitches that work with them have a similar work ethic to his. Wouldn't want to be accused of having a spring to his step.)

Steve wanders in a few hours after everyone has clocked in for the day. He's wearing yesterday's outfit, which is as dead a giveaway as any, even for the fuckers waiting for their retirement to hit who usually can't investigate their way out of a paper bag, but it's the state of Steve’s neck that really has them talking. 

Javi doesn't let himself look up. He's pouring over some surveillance photos that just turned up, pretending to be engrossed. Steve comes to a stop by his chair, stealing Javi's coffee. 

"Oh by all means," Javi says, "help yourself."

"Fuck off." 

His voice is still fucked. 

Steve drops down into his chair, frowning and staring right at Javi, nursing from Javi's cup. 

Javi smiles at him, whistling through his teeth. "Shit, man, you get jumped?"

*

Steve catches him in the hallway, not long after lunch. Javi blinks and Steve's there, pinning him. His hands trap Javi's arms to the wall, immobilizing him, and then one of those long legs of his comes between Javi's own, a thigh that Javi now knows is unexpectedly thick with muscle pressed tight against Javi's dick through the two layers of their pants. 

For all that Javi’s always had a healthy appetite towards sex, even with middle age creeping up on him faster than he'd like, Javi's dick has no right getting this hard as quickly as it does. He feels lightheaded with it, staring up at Steve with his mouth half-open.

Cocaine doesn't hit the system as fast as Steve does, just about every nerve that Javi's got suddenly feeling like it's come alive, attuned to all the various points of contact between Steve's body and his. 

Steve grins at him. "That's what I thought," he says. 

Javi swings before he even knows what he's doing, dipping his shoulder to shrug off Steve's hold, throwing him off balance, and then clipping Steve's lip with the thickest part of his wrist.

Steve goes staggering back, hand clutching at his mouth. When he pulls it back, his teeth are stained with red, and he's still grinning. 

(At least both of them are breathing hard now.)


End file.
